


Soft Regrets

by WanderingJane



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Mentions of Violence, Mild Language, spoilers for the second season of Daredevil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:31:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6311662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingJane/pseuds/WanderingJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He doesn't come find her. She doesn't expect him to, not after she told him that she was done with him, that he was dead to her. She still can't shake the feeling of disappointment and regret over all the things she never said to him.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soft Regrets

**Author's Note:**

> So...these two came out of nowhere and ripped my heart out. Didn't think I'd be writing anymore fanfiction, but I couldn't resist. Whoops?

Everything is loud and chaotic around her. Brett barks out orders, sure and confident, while his officers scramble around them, trying to gain some form of control over the impossible situation they've found themselves in. The rest of the hostages stumble around, shaking and frightened, waiting for the EMTs to arrive. An oppressive heaviness hangs thick in the cold winter air. They all watch, breathless, as Daredevil, ninjas, and a lone, lithe woman fight on the rooftop above them.

The night goes silent for a few seconds, and even the characteristic noise of the city falls hushed. Karen's heart clenches, suddenly afraid that something has happened to Daredevil - the strangely familiar man who's saved her several times now. 

He stands, ready to fight the rest of the men, desperate and full of rage. As he attacks, a shot rings out, clear and deafening even above the roar of the crowd around her. 

"Get down. Everybody get down," Brett shouts. But while everyone sinks to their knees and crouches behind police car doors, Karen stands, not quite believing her eyes. 

"Frank." Her voice is soft, disbelieving. 

He's standing on the ledge of a rooftop high above her. His nods at Daredevil, a gun hanging loose at his side. But then his gaze shifts and he looks down at the crowd. And even from the distance, she swears their eyes meet for the briefest of moments before he disappears. 

He doesn't come find her. She doesn't expect him to, not after she told him that she was done with him, that he was dead to her. She still can't shake the feeling of disappointment and regret over all the things she never said to him.

\- 

The weeks pass and the new year brings changes for everyone. Karen stays at the _Bulletin_ , slowly working way up, writing longer, more polished pieces. She's even proud of a few of them, even if she misses working at Nelson & Murdock. Foggy joins a prestigious law firm where they make him cut his hair and wear somber ties that match his plain shirts. 

Matt's confession is only surprising for the first five minutes. Once he explains about his gift, everything falls into place, and Karen finally understands. 

It's not enough, and Matt still pulls away from both her and Foggy, losing himself more and more to Daredevil and grief. 

Karen works late into the night, hunched over her laptop, squinting against the too-bright light. Sometimes she cracks open the bottle of scotch, pretending for one moment that she's back at Josie's with Matt and Foggy, laughing at their jokes and beating them both at pool.

But nothing's the same. The scotch doesn't taste like sewer water, and there's no laughter, no smiles, no warmth. There is only silence. 

Every night, she works until she's so tired that when she gets home, she collapses onto her bed in her tiny apartment and falls into fitful sleep. Before, her nightmares were haunted by shadowy figures and fingers at her throat, but now, she sees Matt in his Daredevil costume and Foggy in his dull suits, both dead at Wilson Fisk's feet. She sees the surprised look on Wesley's face when she shot him, the blood that coated the floor. 

So Karen throws himself further into her work, writing and investigating, trying to redeem herself in the only way she knows how. 

Foggy once told Karen that she had a freakish knack for research, and she's starting to believe him because it only takes her a week to track Frank down. 

She walks up the five stories, wincing at the missing floorboards and stained walls. There's no sound coming from the other apartments, and she doesn't see anyone else. 

Karen raises her hand, then lowers it and clenches her fist in her skirt. She doesn't know why she's there, doesn't understand the impulse to find a man who's done so much harm. She can't get the image of him beating a man to death not ten feet away from her, but she also can't forget how he threw himself on top of her, shielded her from the spray of bullets with his own body.

In the end, she doesn't knock on his door. She's halfway to the stairs when she hears the door open and clomp of heavy boots heading her way. 

Karen freezes, paralyzed as she debates slipping off her heels and fleeing down the stairs or turning around and confronting him. 

He doesn't give her time to choose. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asks. His voice is lower, rougher than she remembers. 

She spins around, biting her lips as she tries to come up with an excuse, but the words slip away when she sees him. There's a cut across his eyebrow and bruises decorate the right side of his face. She had imagined - hoped - that she would find him looking better, devoid of bruises. It was naive, she realizes that now, to hope that he would leave the life of violence behind. 

"M'am?" 

It's that one simple word that undoes her. Unexpected and unwanted tears prickle at her eyes, but she sniffs loudly and refuses to let them fall. 

"I was in the neighborhood," she says, voice brittle and unsteady. "Thought I'd stop and say hi." She forces a smile to her face.

He doesn't call her on her bullshit. And though his mouth twists in annoyance, his eyes are searching as he looks at her. Karen fidgets and tugs at her blouse. She remembers Colonel Schoonover's words: _Unnerving, the way he could look into a person's soul._

"I just wanted to see if you were okay," she whispers so quietly she's not sure he can hear her. It's the first honest thing she's said all day. She doesn't want to live with the regret of not knowing what's happened to him.

Frank grunts, and somehow manages to make it sound derisive. 

Karen hefts her purse over her shoulder. "I should go." Her foot hovers over the first step when a floorboard creaks as Frank shifts his weight.

"No," he says. "You stay. Please." They're the same words he said to her in the hospital, after they'd first met.

She doesn't know if he really wants to see her or if he's only doing it for her benefit, but Karen nods, and follows him into his apartment. And even though the apartment is small and there are guns and other things she doesn't want to think too hard about scattered everywhere, she feels something loosen in her chest. 

There's a dog sleeping by the window, and half-empty cartons of Chinese food lying on a table. Next to them is a bottle of peroxide and a cluster of bloody bandages. 

Karen frowns. "Are you - ?"

"I'm fine." He thrusts a beer into her hand, and nods at the couch. "You can sit." 

They don't talk, only drink their beers in silence, watching the dog sleep. A confession is on Karen's lips, itching at her, like something's crawling up from her throat. She could blurt it out, get it over with, wait to see if she feels relief or shame. I killed a man. I've done terrible things that no one can ever know about, especially not Matt and Foggy, never them, only you. Only you can know. 

But she doesn't say them. She doesn't say anything. 

An hour. She stays an entire hour. The talk some, small things about how her work is, about Frank's kids. She doesn't ask what he's been up to. She's not sure she wants to know. 

Later, when she's standing at the door, trying to figure out how to say goodbye, Frank thrusts a card with a number messily scrawled across it. 

"Next time call before you show up," he says. He looks into her eyes as he speaks. She likes that. She likes knowing that he isn't hiding anything, that he won't lie to her.

Karen bites back a smile. "I will," she says, and tucks the card into her purse. 

Frank makes a noise that might be a scoff or a laugh, but there's warmth in his dark eyes. Even bruised and bloodied, with the reminders of the violence that he has chosen written into his face, Karen can't help but to smile.

Maybe next time, she'll spill all her secrets to him. Maybe she'll call Foggy and ask him if he wants to meet for drinks. Maybe she'll track down Matt and see how he's doing. Or maybe she won't do any of it, and go back to the office and hide behind her work, dreading the nightmares that won't end. 

But for now, Karen meets Frank's eyes, and smiles, content in the thought that she'll see him again, that there's someone else in the world who might understand what it's like to have blood on their hands and loss in their hearts. 

"Goodbye, Frank. I'll see you soon."

That night, for the first time in nearly a year, Karen sleeps peacefully.


End file.
